


Flower Child Reborn

by silence_that_never_stares_back



Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Consent Issues, Discussion of Past Abuse, Five Man Floyd AU, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Illness, Multi, Public Misdemeanors, Rape, Soundtrack Dissonance, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal actions, Syd likes tea + flowers, There will be happy stuff eventually i promise, Timeline Dissonance, drug usage, read the tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 10:54:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12769515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silence_that_never_stares_back/pseuds/silence_that_never_stares_back
Summary: People make mistakes, Syd tells himself, but he can't make this one go away. It didn't matter if he had no idea. The scars still played themselves out on Roger's flesh. No matter how much they try to hide it, David and Roger are fighting their own wars; Syd's smart enough to see through their facades. Guilt eats him alive, tears at his ribs...He doesn't understand why Roger still wants him around.





	Flower Child Reborn

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to everyone who's written for this fandom.  
> Important warnings here. This fanfiction discusses very sensitive topic. If you are sensitive to consent issues, I STRONGLY recommend that you skip this one. More lighthearted fanfiction will be published under this name soon.  
> Italics are used to indicate flashbacks.  
> AGAIN: CONSENT ISSUES ARE ADDRESSED HERE, PROCEED w/ CAUTION.

Roger never blamed Syd for what had happened.

He blamed Scotty, the flatmate that gave his friend the acid, touting it as a miracle drug.  He blamed himself for not stopping the madcap from going mad. But he blamed the world that gave Syd Barrett a reason to escape from it most of all. As far as Roger was concerned, the giggling groupies and the rough-handed schoolmasters of the earth were the guiltiest. They might as well have put it on his tongue.

“Okay, crew,” Nick shouted, jarring Roger out of his musings, “let's stop fucking around. Start with Arnold Layne and then finish with See Emily Play. Syd wrote this one, and he’s not at the jam session today, so let’s do the poor devil right and play it well, got it? Dave, you’ll be vocals for Layne. Roger, Emily. Ready?”

But Syd? No, no, he didn’t mean to do what he did, yet Roger had a harder time arguing his own feelings on the matter. Of course he felt hurt, even when he ought to just move on from it.

He could still remember what happened, clearer and more horrible than it had ever been. Even playing his bass, safe in the flat he shared with David, he didn’t feel there. He felt like he was back in that world, after the party, after Syd was so gone on acid that he couldn’t realize what Roger was saying in earnest. 

> _“Why are you crying, love?” Syd had asked, his hands hot on his shoulders and his mind in some other plane, where only happiness existed, where he really didn’t know. He followed up the question with a bit of movement, and it_ _hurt_.
> 
> _A song by those people that they had met before was playing. This was a song that Roger was so very familiar with, that added salt to the wounds that were opened and opening._
> 
> _The acid made it hard to tell, someone told him long ago. The acid made it hard to tell. Syd's mind was fraying. Breaking, tattering- maybe gone? He couldn't realize anymore._

He was aware his playing was suffering from it. But he couldn’t stop thinking. Oh, he’d give anything to stop _thinking._

> _“Really now, it scares me when you cry like this- isn’t this fun?”_
> 
> _“No,” Roger almost begged, though it was much too late to do anything. There were no clothes to drag over himself, though the bed was soft. It was no comfort- in, out, in, out, the sensation piling and unwelcome, hating how his body reacted even as his mind screamed for someone to stop it all-_

The bass-pick slid across the neck of the instrument. He couldn’t get his little pick to stick where it should, the point hitting the center of the string instead of strumming it.

> _“No? No what? Am I hurting you?” That note of innocent concern still stayed. “Yeah, I think so. I’ll go slow, we would’ve been almost done anyway. Do you like it when I-” The words and actions mashed together, so filthy, so horrible, a bastardized narration._
> 
> _No no no he didn’t like it he didn’t like it and he could sense the words falling off of his lips._
> 
> _“Georgie. You’re scaring me. What do you want me to do?”_

He hit a sour note, as dark as the afternoon eclipse, and he couldn’t bear it. He could feel them glare at him, awaiting his vocals, but he couldn’t see them, and he couldn’t hear what he sung either.

> _“Please, just stop...” he whispered, his voice a plea._
> 
> _All he could sense was Syd’s expression, the very moment when his drug-addled mind pinpointed that he didn’t want it, when it melted from wanton lust into abject horror and sorrow. He stopped cold before pulling out- no, he pulled away, out felt like a dirty word- leaving Roger sobbing under him. It still felt warm where Syd had touched him, and he hated that reminder of where his friend’s hands had been carelessly roaming._
> 
> _“I hurt you,” he muttered. “Oh God, I hurt you. You didn’t want any of this, did you?”_
> 
> _Roger’s wails of anguish spoke for him._
> 
> _Syd tugged his clothing back on. After he was done, he glanced between a canvas knife and some artist’s rope from the worktable- the moonlight fell on the pale, goosefleshed skin of his wrist, where old scars from all those years ago stood. He chose the knife._
> 
> _“Don’t do it.” It was a command from Roger, too soon spoken to have desperation in it._
> 
> _“I’ll fix it,” he whispered, in a voice more hushed than Roger had ever heard from his friend. His wild staring eyes glanced from corner to corner. Really, he was unable to imagine the horrific things playing in his friend’s mind, on a constant loop of what had transpired. “I’ll go off and I’ll fix things, and you’ll live life happier, I promise… You’ll never have to see me again.”_

He felt the bass fall out of his hand, catching the scent of iron before feeling his lip bleed and his knees hitting the floor. In a different kind of reality, he might have seen Nick drop his drumsticks and run over as fast as he could. He might have heard David cry. But here, there was nothing to see but-

> _“Syd, please don’t even think about it.” His voice was torn apart. Desperate. Too rough from all the screaming._
> 
> _“But I hurt you! I hurt you, and there’s no fixing it, and I’m sorry because I didn’t know that you-”_
> 
> _The words died on his lips. All Syd could do was run out, and they both knew where the cuts would be made within a few moments. Roger ran towards the door, falling from the pain of how rough it was and how much was exposed._
> 
> _He didn’t have the strength to beg him to stay._

It was dark. Nothing was there except the darkness, pressing on his eyes.

*  *  *

It took a long time until he felt safe enough to wake up, but when he did, he was no longer in that dark room on that winter’s night. He was somewhere warm and well-lit, with David sitting next to him.

“You’re safe here, Roger, it’s okay.”

“Where am I?” he asked blankly.

“You’re in the spare room, my friend. I sent Nick and Rick off.”

He sat up- since when had he been lying down?- and felt for his pants and buckle. Thank goodness, it was all intact.

“It’s about what Syd did, isn’t it?” David sounded so sad. “About how he… You know what he did..”

“Of course I know what he did. I was there.” Roger regretted the flippant comment as soon as he had said it, given David’s reaction. Really, he appreciated that he cared, but he didn’t want to make him sad. “But no,” he sighed, “it’s about what happened after.”

“Right…”

“I can’t get that thought out of my head, of seeing him-”

“I understand.” _Please don’t talk about it anymore_ was the clear sentiment.

“Could we visit him, if it’s all right?”

“Visit him. Are you sure?”

“Yeah… I just want to make sure he hasn’t hurt himself anymore.”

“All right. If it’ll make you feel better, I’m happy to oblige.”

*  *  *

Syd dragged himself out of bed, not at all in the right mindset for the day. Well, his mind never was right, it was always turned the wrong way round for this sort of thing. He was never in on these kinds of jokes. But today, he was too groggy for this kind of thing.

He’d wake up after today. He had a knife to do it with. There’d be hardly a sound in this flat till tomorrow, when Scotty would find him and report him to the authorities, for his ashes to be scattered under a nice tree overlooking a river. He’d be floating there…. Forever and ever.

_Emily…_

_Heh. Maybe I’d stay around to hear them play it._

His feet felt like plastic as he stood himself up. The clock read one-eighty-seven (no, no, it couldn’t be three minutes till fourteen-thirty, it was simply one-eighty-seven), which was early for him. The sun was coming down from its highest point in the sky.

Such a shame, really; he hoped to see the sunrise before everything became hopeless. He did some thinking as he gazed at the wall. What could really be on time for someone like him? Everything came too early.

Syd slipped on his houseshoes before walking out of his room. His flatmate had made him some coffee and tea, and gotten his favorite kind of biscuit, which was a really nice touch; it was a childish sort of love that he had for this arrangement.

He contentedly dipped a biscuit into the coffee, then the same one into the tea as he settled down. The kitchen had a nice little table to eat at, all sunny and pretty and lit up, and he liked nothing better than drinking cold tea and gazing at the peeling eggshell walls.

Once he felt nice and full, he cleared the two mugs and biscuit plate up, picked up after his cats, and gave them a treat. They purred so happily at him, he smiled back, knowing that they couldn’t exactly tell he was sad at all. Poor things. He’d be sorry to let them see him go- best to do it in his room, then. Maybe he’d leave behind a painting! Yes, that sounded simply lovely, he’d have to do that.

He tied the smock-apron-thing around his waist. It was really a process, mixing the colours into something beautiful.

 _This’ll be my swan song,_ he hummed to himself, _this’ll be my swan song and I’ll say goodbye after this. It’ll be something pretty for them to look at, a nice memory. Hm. Swan. Song. That would make a lovely chorus, wouldn’t it? Swan song under the rowan trees..._

Such a shame that he couldn’t record it!

Didn’t he have a gig to go to today? Maybe? Maybe not, he had one a while ago and Roger wasn’t very happy with him. He never blamed Roger for it either.

_Roger…_

No no no. Bad thought. He could’ve just as easily shot himself in the back of the neck and be done with it. Just a knife to the throat, he thought, that’s all you need do it Syd do it do it _do it-_

Syd froze. The voice sounded too clear.

 _Don’t think about it,_ he tried to think. _For the love of God, don’t think about it, not now! It’s not acid. It’s just that you’ve worked up the courage to make a final cut._

Yet the voice continued.

This was the drug again, he knew it. At first, he had looked upon it as a refuge, like the _child_ that he was, but he didn’t want it any more, he didn’t like the things he saw anymore, the colors and painted airs didn’t appeal too much longer…

Someone must’ve put it in his drink, he put together, in the cold tea. He ate at another friend’s apartment last night, and he didn’t feel high then.

He had to do it now, then, he knew that it wouldn’t be long before the acid made it hard to. It was a mad dash across the house to find the knife that he had before, the knife that he had seen after he ra- _hurt_ Roger-

Syd stayed silent as more blood fell, slicing his hand with the knife instead of cutting his arm.

All he could see was the color red. Red and his hands doing things he didn’t want them to. Red and the doorframe six inches away from his nose. Red and lips crashing together, a caricature of his guilty thoughts.

Hands reached out and dragged him. Soft things were falling. There were voices and they rang like bells.

“Calm down, Syd, we’re putting you away," his flatmate muttered.

Being pressed back into the cage.

“Let’s lock him in.”

“D’you have a padlock?”

“Nope, but some duct tape oughta do the trick.” The scarlet cage fused in onto itself, writhing and pulsing, growing together. “Okay, he’s shut in. When do we let him out?”

“Unsure. Just have a drink, mate, I think the poor devil will calm down by the time we finish.”

Somewhere deep in his mind, he thought of what he did when he was on as high a dose as this, when he was as zoned out and horrible as he was now. He couldn’t help but hear his own voice in his head, puppetting his words….

 _Why are you crying, love?_ he couldn’t help but think.

**Author's Note:**

> Song mentioned: Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
> 
> Thanks for reading. I hope to see you next week :3


End file.
